As I cut the onions, mashed the tomatoes
Heated the oil, brought the water to boil
Sautéed the garlic, Threw in the macaroni
I realised, something else was cooking
Because the soup wasn’t good-looking
And the pasta was under.
But their clutter was the only dialogue
That cleared the smoke.
The conflict that rose and settled
Bandaged what was broke.
Nobody wanted it, the soup
It was cooked after dinner-time
In a rush, fifteen minutes to be precise
Everyone had it, to be nice
Alas, somebody had to digest
That whirlwind of a storm
Or it would lie hovering on my kitchen top
Besides my mind.
And I would keep ruminating over it
Like I did the raw bell peppers
In a bid to make sense
Of our reel in rewind.
